Spot Conlon. Fearless and without weakness. Everyone thought they knew who he was; they thought they knew Spot Conlon, the leader of the Brooklyn newsies.
And they were right.
Everyone DID know Spot Conlon, leader of the Brooklyn newsies. But only one person knew Spot Conlon, the funny Irish boy with a huge heart.
Racetrack Higgins knew.
It was a shame that Spot and Racetrack were in different boroughs, but they made it work. Sometimes Spot went to 'Hattan. Sometimes Race went to Brooklyn. And sometimes, though these times were rare, they would go somewhere else entirely.
So, that was why Race and Spot were selling in Queens for the day. Spot sent one of his birds to inform the leader of Queens that they would be selling there. He didn't ASK, because honestly, Queens couldn't kick them out if they tried.
It wasn't like they were stealing business, after all, they had met at the Brooklyn bridge, walked to Queens, gotten their papes, then continued walking until noon. They were so far away from the Queens lodging house that no one in their right minds would sell there if they could help it.
Spot had ordered the birds not to follow them today, so they were completely alone.
No newsies.
No responsibilities.
No problems.
There they were, side by side, laughing at richies and selling their papes just like old times. Spot had a huge smile on his face, an expression he could only show when they were alone.
Yes, this was the life.
In front of them was a marketplace, full of richies. You know, the real hoity toity ones with the absolute WORST attitude.
Behind them was an old abandoned... Structure. It was most definitively made by some idiot looking for trouble, Spot mused, looking at the ugly mass of concrete and wood. There was a cinder block tower in the center, holding up the heavy, concrete roof, and wooden walls all the way around. Race called it 'the hut'. It looked just about ready to keel over, but that didn't stop about ten kids from playing inside.
Ah. To be young.
"Hey. Hey, Spotty, lookit that one." Race snickered, pointing at a richie girl no older than them. She was wearing a ridiculous looking bonnet, one that nearly covered the I'm-so-not-impressed look on her face.
"I'm gonna." Spot beamed, relishing the look of absolute shock on Race's features. They hardly ever bothered with full sentences, after all, one always knew what the other was thinking.
"What?! Spot, no, you crazy?"
"I'm gonna."
"No way!"
"Yeah! I'm so gonna do it!"
"Spot!" Race protested, but the other boy was already walking away.
"Wish me luck!"
"Hope you die, bum!"
Spot snorted, approaching the richie with the most adorable grin in his arsenal.
"Hey, toots." he smirked, walking right up to her. She was at least a head taller than him, but that didn't stop him from waggling his eyebrows suggestively.
Somewhere behind him, Race was busting a gut.
"Get AWAY from me, you dirty street rat. I'll have you know, my father can throw you in jail!"
Ignoring her completely, Spot tried to kiss her hand.
"Your tight skirt is driving me crazy, toots-"
"UGH!" the richie slapped him across the face so hard it left a mark, and then stomped off.
Spot froze.
Something was terribly wrong.
Surprizingly, it wasn't the fact that a wimpy richie girl had just assaulted him. Spot knew that would happen all along.
He listened closely to what was happening around him.
Monotonous droning of fat old men.
Check.
High pitched chirping of young girls.
Check.
EXTREMELY loud hollering of shopkeepers.
Check.
But there was one important sound missing.
Race.
Why wasn't he laughing?
Unless... Unless he was distracted.
Panic overtook him, and it was then that Spot heard the children screaming. The wood cracking. He whirled around just in time to see Race running into the hut, a
small blonde boy getting hurled out of the door, and then the ceiling falling down, breaking in two as it did so.
"RACE!"

Race saw Spot saunter up to the richie, flirting with her not so subtly. He couldn't help it, he laughed. Knowing that Spot was about to deliver the punchline, he leaned in-
Then froze.
From behind him came the sound of wood cracking.
"No..." Race whirled around, looking at 'the hut' in perfect horror. Cracks appeared along the walls, and the entire structure sagged.
The children weren't oblivious, a fact clearly shown when all of them ran out screaming.
A little blonde girl, about half the size of Race, stopped suddenly, nearly getting trampled over in the process.
"Sammy! Wait, stop! I need to get my brother!" she screamed, pushing aside kids to get back into the hut.
Time seemed to slow as Race assessed the situation.
The cinder blocks had obviously been knocked over, which meant that the entire roof was going to fall.
Race was no idiot. Mush, the strongest newsie in Manhattan couldn't carry that kind of weight. THREE Mushes couldn't carry that kind of weight.
It's not like a little boy would be able to survive anything like that.
And Race?
Race had the strongest ribs in New York.
"Outta my way!" He yelled, sprinting into the hut. It was dark in there, with tiny beams of light shining where the cracks appeared.
The cinder block tower HAD been knocked over, and all of them had fallen on top of something- On top of a little blonde boy.
He was screaming and yelling, thrashing for all it was worth, but Race could see the fear in his eyes.
Without hesitation, Race picked him up with strength he didn't even know he had, and hurled him back out the door.
Race sensed the hut collapsing before he saw it, diving forwards towards the exit, but it was no use.
It was still too far away.
He put his arms over his head, squeezing his eyes shut as the walls gave in, and the solid concrete fell.

"Nonononono... NO! RACE!" Spot was at the wreckage in a heartbeat, nerves shot and heart pounding.
He should be crying. He would be crying, but it had been so long he didn't know how.
"HELP! SOMEBODY HELP ME!" he turned to the marketplace, screaming at the richies as loud as he could.
But really, who would possibly help him? They sit by and watch as hundreds of kids die on the streets without lifting a finger.
Was this so different?
Yes, they stopped. Yes, they were watching. But not a single one of them did anything.
Spot was alone.
He wasn't in Brooklyn, where he had friends. He wasn't in 'Hattan, where he had friends- more like family. He was in Queens, surrounded by richies and a couple little kids, with Racetrack probably dead-
At that thought he screamed, a tortured, crazed scream that made everyone watching him jump.
Damn. Spot forgot how good it felt to do that.
Again and again he screamed, tearing as his hair and shirt, screaming until he had no air.
Suddenly he shot up, lifting some smaller pieces of rubble off of the wreckage- not an easy feat, but Spot didn't care.
Race was in there.
And Lord help him if he didn't do anything.
"Damn it, Racetrack Higgins, don't you DARE die on me you son of a-!"
"Mmph..." The sound was so faint Spot nearly missed it.
"... Race?" He croaked, barely letting himself believe it.
"Ungh..."
"Don't worry, it's okay! I'm here, Race! I'll get you out, okay?!"
The only sound Race made at that point was a strangled moan, not good in normal terms, but considering he was dead five seconds ago, it was a definite improvement.
Spot hesitated.
Lugging these tiny pieces of rock and wood wasn't helping matters much. What he really had to do was lift that big piece off of Race, tip it over and away, and then push that other one off- yes! Then Race would be out!
... Easier said than done.
That 'big piece' was at least 80% of the roof, thrown on there like some unpushable, unshovable, unmoveable blanket of doom.
Should he go get help? No, that would take too long. Race could be- no, Spot didn't even want to think about it. The bulls? Spot dismissed the idea immediately. They hated the newsies, and let's get real here, would they actually help?
Hell no.
It was just Spot.
Race continued to choke out gibberish, groans and moans mixed in here and there.
The message was clear.
Conlon, move your skinny little ass into high gear. I can't freaking breathe.
There was no more think.
Only do.
So, to the crowds amazement, he reached down, grabbed the concrete slab with both hands, and pulled as hard as he could.

Unsurprisingly, it didn't budge the first time.
Or the second time.
Or the third.
Fourth.
Or fifth.
But on his sixth time, back aching and drenched in sweat, it rose no more than a millimeter.
Progress!
With a triumphant laugh, he moved to lift more-
Only to have his back twinge in agonizing pain, making him drop the slab in shock.
He muttered a quick curse, then tried again.
And again.
And again.
And again.
White lights were flashing in his vision. His back ached. His palms were bloody and scraped.
Still, he pushed on.
It was around his fifteenth time when Race let out an agonized scream, most likely from the shifting of the slab on top of him.
Spot was panicking, breath coming in short gasps every time Race screamed or moaned in pain.
This wasn't working.
He got on one knee, a position he hoped would be better for his back.
"Ngh..." fingers positioned, he tensed all his muscles and pulled, not with his back, just with his arms.
When it didn't move, he just lifted harder.
Every muscle in his body was on fire, and his face was red as he screamed in frustration.
Then the incredible happened.
The slab began to rise.
Richies everywhere were gasping in shock as this little boy, with arms as thin as wire, lifted the concrete all the way up to eye level.
If Spot could open his eyes he could probably see Race at that point, but he wasn't taking that chance.
"Ghk-" Spot choked, shaking with exhaustion as the stone went higher and higher.
This was unlike anything Spot had ever felt before. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, dampening the aches and pains in his body that would undoubtedly be unbearable without its presence.
At last, when the pressure on his wrists turned into a sharp crack, he dropped the concrete slab on his shoulder. The impact of it quite nearly knocked his knee out, and he groaned in pain.
Then, ever so slowly, he stood up, taking a small leap of faith as he took the leg behind him away, well aware that his entire leg could've just collapsed in that split second.
Where was he getting all this power from? He felt like he could move the world at that point, raising the concrete higher and higher. But obviously he wasn't making enough adrenaline, because through all the ominous popping and cracking sounds, he was feeling worse than he had never felt before.
He only felt pain. He only smelled dust and sweat. He only heard the pounding of blood in his ears and the ever present protest of his bones and joints.
And at that point, he only saw Race.
"Race... Track!"
With one quick movement, Spot raised the slab above his head, yelling as white hot pain erupted in his left arm, leaving him with just his right.
The roof toppled over when Spot stumbled forwards, breaking into three pieces and sliding away.
Spot felt the adrenaline slipping away, it's comforting presence getting fainter and fainter as his injuries and the helplessness of the situation sunk in.
"N- no! Agh..." Feeling woozy, he scrabbled forwards, cradling his injured arm into his chest. Pushing the smaller block off of Racetrack was child's play compared to what he just did, and in no more than five seconds, he was looking at Race's prone form with fear in his eyes.
Racetrack was lying on his stomach, hands pressed firmly on the back of his head and face buried in the ground.
He didn't move a muscle.
The backs of his hands, the back of his neck, and his ankles were so bloody and battered there was no hint of tan, peach, brown, or white to be seen. It was all red, and purple, with some grey dust in his hair and wounds. Wait- was that- oh my god, it was. On Race's wrist, where arm met hand, there was white.
Not skin.
But bone.
Overcome with nausea, and unwilling to throw up his good, nutritious food that his body was still USING thank you very much, Spot averted his gaze downwards.
That wasn't much better.
Race's legs were pointing in directions legs were definitively not supposed to point. All twisted and mutilated, to the point where Spot DID lose his lunch, very discreetly, and keeping as much dignity as he could.
"Ra-ace." Spot's voice cracked, but if anyone asked, it was a combination of the rock dust and the acidic aftertaste of vomit. "G-God... Higgins, say something!"
Spot waited for the miracle moment, waited for Race to turn his head and smile, waited for him to say that it would be alright.
He waited for what seemed like forever.
To no avail.
It seemed like he had no miracles left to use.


Woo, finally posting this one! This is probably a couple of years in the making, so I hope you guys like it :)